


Of (fucking) Course

by reserve



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Dylan You Are a Needy Jerk and I Love You, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 18:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve
Summary: Dylan is having the longest season of his NHL career.





	Of (fucking) Course

**Author's Note:**

  * For [restitched (beingothrwrldly)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingothrwrldly/gifts).



> Many thanks to [robokittens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens) and megan for being my sounding board as aways. And to the fest organizers! It's what Dylan deserves. 
> 
> I made up this Islanders-Rangers back-to-back. Didn't happen. No NHL schedules were harmed in the production of this fic.

Alex is either asleep or texting Lyndsey, because the TV has gone silent and the hotel room lights are out.

Dylan flips off the washroom lights too, just to be sure there’s no light peeking out from under the door that he missed, then leaves them off, sits down on the toilet. He pulls out his phone, lets it be his only form of illumination. The screen keeps catching in the mirror, eerie blue and reflecting back at him, making his cheeks and chin look strange, emphasizing how deep set his eyes are.

He tries to ignore it, taps the screen instead, opens up iMessage. The Leafs had a game but it was early, on the West Coast. If Dylan’s awake in New York, staring down a Rangers-then-Islanders back-to-back, then Mitch should be awake in Vancouver, or on the plane back to Toronto, or even home by now.

Right?

He types _hey_ , but deletes it. Tries _sup_ , and deletes that too. He has just about settled on _yo_ , when Mitch texts him first.

 _I can see the little dots,_ he sends.

 _How did you even know to look for them?_ Dylan sends back, half annoyed and half pleased. He likes to be the one to reach out first, beat Mitch to it, even if he agonizes over how to open the door every time.

 _Im a witch_ then _whats up?_ Mitch replies, complete with the little witch emoji and the crystal ball. He follows it up with six of the three star emojis. He’s terrifically annoying; Dylan adores him.

_If ur a witch then you know what’s up._

_Alex abandon you?_

Dylan rolls his eyes, glances up, catches sight of himself: his hunched over shoulders, elbows on his knees so he can see his phone in the dark up close. He looks like a gremlin.

 _He’s asleep. I’m hiding in the bathroom._ Dylan bites at his mouth for a moment before typing, _send me a pic. If you can._

He imagines he can hear Mitch laughing at him; delighted and obnoxious, his wonderful mouth stretching out into a broad grin that’s somehow more gums than teeth. Dylan flips his phone down on his thigh, starts tapping his foot, then tapping on the back of the phone with his pointer finger.

He turned off notifs for Mitch way back when he realized he would check his phone obsessively if he knew there might be one incoming.

After enough time has passed, he turns his phone back over, unlocks it with the passcode since it’s too dark for facial recognition and feels his stomach drop to see the little red one symbol on iMessage app. He almost rubs his palms together like a supervillain in a movie, like he’s getting away with something before he taps the icon, then the little picture so he can see it full-screen.

Mitch, grinning at him in half-light, most of his face obscured by one hand flipping him the bird. Dylan can’t tell if he’s on a plane or in his apartment or wherever. He can feel how _amused_ Mitch is, how Mitch will bend over backward just to bother him unless Dylan physically has him on his back: a rarity these days. A rarity always.

 _You dick_ he writes, smiling in spite of himself. Marner is a fucking grab bag. He wouldn’t be hiding in the bathroom if he weren’t.

 _Awwwww bb_ Mitch says. _So sweet to me._

Dylan is about to ask for something better. About to ask Mitch to be sweet to _him_ , for once, when another picture comes through. Dylan’s stomach rolls again. He glances down at the bottom of the door and the lights are still off on the other side. He tries not to get up to stuff when Alex is around because it just seems rude. But Mitch is like comfort food, and this season has left Dylan hungry.

He presses on the image, shocks himself with the desperate sigh it forces out of him. He doesn’t feel pained, but he _sounds_ pained.

Quickly, so he can go right back to looking, he types _fuuuuuuck._

The truth is, Dylan could probably get off to one of Mitch’s post-games. It’s hardwired into him to see that flushed skin and messy hair and want to rub one out. Mitch’s perpetually red-bitten, wet mouth, the sinuous way he moves his neck around to stretch out the kinks from working hard or playing hard—it fucking _affects_ him. He hasn’t done it, but he probably could.

It’s better, though, _worlds_ better, to get something from Mitch that’s just for him. He’s not going to go on one of his obsessive fucking spirals and analyze whether or not Mitch already had this pic on his phone. He’s not going to think about being someone’s phone sext sloppy seconds.

He’s not going to wonder if Auston fucking Matthews got this picture first over the All-Star break or something.

No.

Fuck.

 _Send another_ , he writes. _Do it_.

Mitch sends back several question marks and a frowny-face emoji immediately.

Dylan taps on the second picture again, stares down at his phone resting on his thigh. His heartbeat picks up. He’s—okay, he’s turned on. Obviously this got him going, of course it did. He’s only human, and Mitch is, well, Mitch. Being attracted to him is like everything else in Dylan’s life: confusing, unstoppable, a video on loop of Dylan himself stuttering over “I don’t know,” while shaking his head just slightly to clear his thoughts.

He presses the heel of his hand over his hardon, through his sweats. He could probably just sit here and get off on being angry. He doesn’t have to think too hard about it.

Mitch actually listens for once and ruins that plan. Dylan almost knocks his phone to the ground scrambling to see what he’s sent. And this one— _shit_.

Dylan knows this one is just for him.

He can see the digital clock on Mitch’s TV set-up from this angle. Same time, same time zone. He’s been in Mitch’s apartment, he knows Mitch is on his own couch, the stupid one that faces away from the television, that Mitch is doing what he wants in real time, half-dressed just for him, t-shirt pulled up so that Dylan can see his stomach and the suggestion of his abs, his pretty dick poking out above the waistband of his boxers. He can see just enough of Mitch’s face to know he’s blushing. He looks like he’s having an acne flare-up.

If Dylan were there he’d fuck him into the floor. He grabs the tiny hotel lotion off the sink, squeezes a too-generous amount into his palm, and shoves down his sweats.

Types back one-handed, _if i were there_ then deletes it. Types back _i miss you._ Goes back to the photo.

He’s getting into it, staring at his phone, at Mitchy, like he could will himself to Toronto with the force of his arousal alone, through sheer will and desire. And even though he’s touching himself, getting exactly what he wanted, heedless of Alex in the other room, he still can’t stop himself from texting, _tell me you miss me too._

 _Ofc you idiot,_ Mitch responds immediately.

 _Ofc_.

Dylan groans, doubles his efforts. Thinks about putting himself on his knees between Mitch’s thighs and getting his mouth on him, making him squirm and wait while Dylan took his time. That’s—yeah, that’s good. He could do that for a while, and it would be worth it. Mitch would make the dumbest, hottest sounds. He looks so good when he’s under Dylan  

He picks up his phone again, ready to tell Mitch he should jerk off too, but—

“Jesus, Dyl. There’s only one fucking bathroom.”

Alex. Alex knocking at the door, sleep in his voice, perturbed.

“Did you die in there?”

Shit.

“Uhhhh, haha. No. Hang on.” Dylan tucks himself away, almost knocking everything off the sink in the process. Wipes his hand on his sweats. He smells like scented hotel lotion. His  _dick_ smells like scented hotel lotion. That’s not… obvious at all. That’s totally fine. It’s good to moisturize.

He shoves his phone into his pocket and flips the lights back on. Recoils at their brightness like a nocturnal creature suddenly caught under the sun. When he opens the door, Alex looks up at him like he’s got two heads.

“You look like a crack addict, dude,” he says, laughing, and pushes past him. “I almost went to Jules’ room to take a piss.”

Dylan laughs back woodenly. He’s still sort of hard. The bed is only a few feet away. Alex shuts the door in his face and Dylan lunges for the safety of his own mattress. He pulls out his phone once he’s under the covers and there’s another picture of Mitch, just his stomach this time, come dribbled across it in little opaque pools.

 _Unfair,_ Dylan sends back. And adds at least 15 fire emojis so that Mitch knows what he means. _Really really miss you._

 _No u,_ Mitch says. It comes with a heart emoji.  _Go the fuck to sleep bb._

Dylan mashes his face into the starchy hotel pillow. The room smells like Alex's pregame cologne, a gift from Patrick Sharp because even the retired vets dote on Brinksy. It's spicy and warm and smells good in a way he doesn't like to think too hard about. The toilet flushes. Dylan groans, remembers to plug in his phone, and tries to sleep.


End file.
